


the glory of the kingdom

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:00:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is taken by the Fair Folk, and he makes an impossible choice. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the glory of the kingdom

Sprawled pink and belly-down under the sun-dappled branches of the oak-trees, every bone in his body aching from the fine tips of his fingers to the white soles of his feet, he (who had learned to breathe under the sea and under the loam) gasped for air, as breathless as a newborn. He became aware that the grass was wrapping itself around his body- his _body_ \- yes, it was the right body (neither feathered nor furred), and he was in the right place, too.

He knew he was in the right place because of the river behind him, and the ravens that were staring down at him. They were so steeped in magic, in this _place_ (here, now, then) that they might as well have shed their wings and put down roots like the trees that stretched up into the sky, gilded in the sunlight. The ravens, he gathered, were staring at him because he was moving. They had seen their share of dead bodies (and wasn't that how this all began?), and they would see many, many more in the days to come, when men would build a white-walled tower at edge of the soft-running dark river. The ravens would see it all.

He heaved himself up, ungainly and slow, and promised himself that it would not be like this next time; it wouldn't be like this for Arthur. For one, Arthur couldn't save Albion if he was _naked_. Well, he could, Merlin supposed, but it was lacking in dignity- he stood, finally, and planted his feet firmly outside of the fairy ring. He scratched himself absently and conjured up his clothes: fine trousers, good boots, a red tunic embroidered with fine gold thread, and a green cloak of silk so rich that it needed no embellishment, all appeared before him on the verge.

Almost as an afterthought, Merlin peeled a ratty grey cloak from the bark of a tree; it would disguise him from all mortal eyes. He squelched his toes one last time in the mud before sliding the boots on, and then it was time to go. He could not be late; all the magic in the world could not make up for lost time.

One last glance at the fairy ring behind him, where it sat quietly in its clearing, and then he left the woods. The ring was only a few feet away from the road, but he had passed a thousand years there unnoticed by all the mortals who went by. He had walked this road a lifetime ago and it felt strange to be walking along it again, this time without a pack or rod; no, this time he had a much weightier burden on his shoulders.

He had a king to make.

He moved placidly, letting his feet follow the path while his mind drifted. What he knew: more than he could recount. Fine, then, what was _now_ : Uther was dead and buried. All of Albion knew that (Albion didn't exist yet; he couldn't slip up-), and the celebrations had been immense. Merlin spent a week, at least, wrapped in red silk and the arms of noble women, drinking water that was headier than any wine known to man.

More mortals had gone missing in the month after Uther's death than had in the entire length of his reign; the sidhe were greedy in their joy and the underworld was peopled anew with the most talented poets, the most beautiful mortals that the sidhe could find. Most of them, Merlin knew, would never see their homes again. But there were worse fates by far than to be snatched by the Fair Folk.

This, also: Arthur was king. Strange how little Merlin had to do with that, in the end. But he supposed the dragon had not been wrong; Merlin's work was not just to make Arthur _a_ king: it was to make Arthur into a _great_ king. He would make Arthur into the greatest king to ever rule Albion. Merlin knew this because he had read it, in a monastery in the twelfth century: _Here lies Arthur the flower of kings..._. It had not been Arthur's grave, but the sentiment- that was real. Here lies Arthur...

This, too: Arthur would not die. He could only hope that Arthur would forgive him.

  
*

The sun had gone down by the time he reached Camelot, and to his eyes the lights of the town and the castle were dull compared to the stars. You could see the stars anywhere- _everywhere_ \- but this, this place and this time was like nothing else on Earth. Now he threw the grey cloak over his shoulders and shuffled past the guards at the gate.

Nothing much had changed: the houses were the same, ramshackle piles of stone and mud and wood, with the same people living in them; the markets had packed up for the day, as they had before, and if he felt a pang of nostalgia when he passed the stocks, it did not show on his face. Camelot was the same, but Merlin was changed. He saw the castle gates as if for the first time, saw the flimsy rotting wood of the doors and the stones of the walls slowly crumbling to dust around them.

Merlin pulled his cloak closer, and anyone who looked at him would've seen a frail husk of a man, an old grey-haired traveler who had reached the end of his road. Time, now, to find out what kind of man Arthur had become. Time to find out what kind of king he had become.

Arthur's court was a dark, drab place, crowded with hangers-on and gold-diggers, all shadowed corners and unrefreshed reeds that stank of piss. Everything would rot and fade, but the floor was solid underneath them now, so Merlin put it from his mind and focused on what was in front of him. Arthur sat at a grand table, with Gwen to one side and a stranger on the other; Morgana was nowhere to be seen. The king was laughing loudly, his nose and eyes red from the wine, but Merlin could see where the years had carved new lines into his face, around his eyes and his forehead, and his hair was a little longer, unruly. The crown was an awkward fit. Gwen was sitting silently beside him, hollow-eyed and exhausted with her own grief.

They were so young.

Merlin shoved his way to the front of the court and rapped his staff on the floor. No one noticed. He stole the breath from the courtier's mouths with a sigh, and, in the sudden silence that followed, he pitched his voice to carry and said, "Arthur Pendragon, are you such a useless, drunken sot that you would deny an old man an audience in your court? Where is your fabled hospitality?"

The silence was broken by the sharp sound of Arthur's goblet slamming down onto the table. "Who are _you_ , old man," Arthur said, "to speak to the King of Camelot in such a manner?" His face was red with outrage, and he nodded to the guards standing at the doors.

"My lord," Merlin said, brushing off the guard's hands as they reached for his shoulders. They subsided, puzzled and bewitched, and Merlin continued. "You'll never be a great king if you act like your father. And you, my liege, are more like your father than you ever wanted to be. You're too proud. And you're really being stupid. Have you forgotten _everything_ I taught you?"

" _What?_ " Arthur said. "Guards!" He gestured wildly at the men flanking Merlin. "Arrest him!"

"I'm disappointed, Arthur," Merlin said. "You really _are_ a complete _prat_."

"What?" Arthur said, a little helplessly. He sagged against the table and Gwen put a hand on his arm. Merlin waited.

" _Merlin?_ Arthur said. He sounded- not hopeful, exactly. Uncertain. Baffled, perhaps. Frightened. Gwen made a soft surprised sound, not quite a word.

Merlin pushed back his hood and let his disguise melt away. "Sorry it took me so long to get back," he said. "Hi."

  
*

One day a man came to the court. He was brighter than the rushlights, all yellow and fair, and Mab's lip curled when she saw him. "What brings you to my court, bard?" she asked.

The man bowed so deeply it was nearly mocking, and his golden hair rippled and shone as he moved.

"My lady," he said. "I come to offer my songs and my knowledge in return for your protection."

"You are a common thief," Mab said, "and your gifts are ill-gotten, Taliesin, Bard of Bards. I should set my Merlin on you."

The bard only smiled brilliantly at that. "Can you blame me, my lady? You steal mortals from their beds. My wisdom is not half so tempting." He glanced, fleetingly, at Merlin.

"No, you would not be so cruel, my lady. Not when I can offer you so much. I can tell you how to ensnare the fleetest stag in the forest, and where to catch every falling star. I can enchant your bower so that it is irresistible to mortals. I can sing the sparrows out of the sky."

Mab cocked her head to the side, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders. She looked unnervingly like Morgana for a moment. Her eyes darted between Merlin and Taliesin.

"Well," she said finally, settling back against her throne, "I would see all of that."

Taliesin turned his bright smile on Merlin. "I think that we will be friends," he said. "We have much to learn from each other." Merlin, not trusting himself to speak, looked at Mab. She was watching them intently, her bone-white fingers pressed to her red lips.

"My lord Taliesin," she said, "is it not enough that you have confounded my magicians and enchanted my guards? Would you steal away my Merlin?"

Taliesin's smile didn't waver. "I would not dream of taking your magician, Madam," he said, "but I would teach him to prophesy, and show him how to bind men's tongues and enchant their minds. He is a rare creature."

Mab laughed at that, and her laughter was a crow's husky croak.

  
*

"Tell me," Merlin said, "have you had an ambassador from Rome yet?"

Arthur was slumped in a chair beside the fire, staring at him in a dazed sort of way. The light danced over his face: one moment he was a craggy old man, with hollowed cheeks and darkened eyes, and in the next instant he was younger than Merlin had ever seen him. His face shifted, old, and then young, and then, briefly, he transformed completely, his features sharpening and shifting. His skin was translucent, his mouth a black slash in his face. The castle groaned around them and Arthur blinked, and seemed to wake up.

"Yes, we have," he said. "He just arrived today. Funny old bloke. How did you know?"

Merlin smiled, and then tried to look mysterious. It never worked on Arthur anyways, but one had to _try_. "I know everything," he said.

Arthur's eyebrows flew up.

"Well, _nearly_ everything," Merlin amended into his goblet. The wine was awful. "Can't you afford better wine?" he asked.

"This _is_ the better wine," Arthur said. He wasn't as surly as he might have been. Kingship had mellowed him, then.

Merlin turned, and passed his fingers through the fire.

"The ambassador will ask for tribute," Merlin said. "Don't give it to him."

"Why not?" Arthur says. "Look, principles are nice and all, but we're not big enough to take them on. Merlin, I'm barely holding the _country_ together. I can't take on Rome."

"No," Merlin said. "You will go to war. And you will win. Send a message to your cousin Hywel and march through Brittany. Your knights will follow you."

"God, Merlin!" Arthur said, "You're insane. I think the fairies took whatever common sense you had - not much, of course - and threw it on the dungheap."

He smiled fondly, despite his words, and the firelight dappled his face and deepened the shadows under his eyes.

"Arthur," Merlin said. "You've trusted me before. Trust me now, and you will never regret it." He ignored the guilty pang in his chest. _Arthur would live_ , and that was enough.

The fire snapped in the hearth and flared up around Merlin's hand. He barely noticed; a flare of warmth, somewhere on the mortal plane. Nothing.

Arthur was staring at him again.

"Merlin," he said, " _your sleeve is on fire_."

*

After Jurisprudence and the Elements came Portents and Astrology. Today it was Triads and Augury, with a little ornithology thrown in.

"Will you stop calling me _Emrys_?" Merlin hissed. Taliesin laughed.

"It is no bad thing, to have two names," he said. He plucked his harp, and a clear, chiming note sliced through the air. "I have had two," he continued, "and having a second name, a good name- that lets you change who you _are_ , Emrys. It will make you who you want to be."

"I'm Merlin," Merlin said firmly.

"Well, then, _Merlin_ , tell me the three illusions of the Island of Prydain."

"The illusion of Math son of Mathonwy-"

"Never trust a magician." Taliesin's mouth quirked in a smile.

"-and the illusion of Uther Pendragon, who begat Arthur in secret, and-"

Taliesin cut him off. "Now the three harmful blows to the Isle of Prydain," he said.

Merlin sighed, distracted, and the bard plucked his harp again. "You will see him again, Emrys. Trust me. Now- the three harmful blows."

*

"Don't marry Guinevere," Merlin said. It was coming out all wrong, and Arthur was staring at him like he'd let something slip, and this was ridiculous. He sounded like a jealous fishwife.

Perhaps he was, a little.

The world was narrower nowadays; he lived more and more in the mortal world, in the present. His mind no longer slipped through time, and the trees and the skies and the animals were quieter and quieter. Mab's voice was the only thing he heard in his dreams, now. She sang through the birds and mumbled in the streams. Her voice rumbled in thunderstorms. The crows laughed at him, constantly, and the girl Vivien (a thin disguise at best) circled ever closer. But he had one more prophecy left.

One last warning, before he went.

*

"Arthur _will_ die, Emrys. But you can save him. You can change that."

"Of course I can," Merlin began, but she cut him off mid-sentence.

"You have a choice, Emrys," Mab said. Her eyes glittered in the dark. "Arthur is mortal, and destined to die. His kingdom will be a golden realm, and all of the good that he does will live on forever, untainted by greed and fear. Arthur's legacy will never die, but the man will rot, and moulder, and go to dust."

The torches flickered and went out.

Her voice came out of the darkness.

"You can save him, Merlin, but there will be a price."

Merlin licked his lips. "What is it?"

"You will return to me when I call you," she said. "And you'll stay here with me until you are powerful enough to leave."

That would be a very long time, he thought hazily.

"But I could spend time with Arthur?" Merlin said.

"Yes, a little time. You would be by his side again."

"And he won't die," Merlin pressed.

"No, my little Merlin," Mab said. "I will put him into an enchanted sleep, and hide him away from the world of men. Time will not touch him. But his kingdom will wither. Those who love him best will turn on him, and all that was good in Camelot will turn to blood and hatred. Men will become petty again. They will forget. _That_ is the price you will pay, for Arthur's life."

The walls around them had melted away, leaving bare, dripping rock and tangled roots overhead. Merlin closed his eyes and thought of home, of blue skies and soft grass, of real, bitter wine and stale bread and stinging snow. Swords ringing in the air, the thunder of hooves over battlefields and the stench of blood. Arthur lying pale and lifeless in the mud, a bloody hand plucking Excalibur from his fingers.

"Is he really so dear to you?" Mab asked. She sounded amused.

"He has a destiny," Merlin said. "He still has more to do."

He had carved the inscription with his own hands, using a hammer and chisel.

 _HIC IACET ARTHURUS REX QUONDAM REXQUE FUTURUS_

It was an epitaph, a prophecy, and a promise. There was work yet to do.

He still had grit under his nails. Now he had to make it count for something.

  


 

 


End file.
